


and here i stand, with this sword in my hand

by something_pithy



Series: tales of the nightcastle [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Luke Cage (TV), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_pithy/pseuds/something_pithy
Summary: "Claire holding back emotionally because she’s worried that Frank will be just like Matt."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [И вот стою, сжимая меч в руке](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11590506) by [fandom_Hells_Kitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Hells_Kitchen/pseuds/fandom_Hells_Kitchen), [Xetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xetta/pseuds/Xetta)



> Title from “Take to the Sky” by Tori Amos.
> 
> This is a prompt from the lovely and talented @mitts-and-sticks on tumblr!
> 
> It's part of the series "tales of the nightcastle," one-shots (and maybe someday drabbles? who knows) that revolve around Frank Castle (The Punisher) and Claire Temple (The Night Nurse). Right now, they could be in the same universe, but it's probably reasonable to see/expect some AU stuff, too, at some point.
> 
> This was going to be vignettes, but some parts demanded more than others… I hope you enjoy! :D

He traced his knuckles along her cheekbone; his fingertips along her throat, her collarbone.

For a moment, she smiled up at him, her eyes still closed; then she opened them, her eyes focusing on him, and the smile faded to a curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Taking his hand, she kissed his fingertips, then moved out of his reach, getting out of bed and moving to the bathroom.

He heard the shower. She didn’t come back to bed.

***

“So I was thinking, instead of the skull, maybe you want to go with a different design.”

He arched a brow at her as she checked on his shoulder; he’d pushed it back into place after dislocating it.

“Oh yeah?” he asked as she rotated his arm.

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes on his shoulder. “You know, last time you came, I thought of it.”  
  
She let go of his arm, then, and picked up a folded black garment. “You left this here, and so I threw it in with the wash…”

She pressed her lips together as he unfolded it to reveal the skull. Except now it was pink. He raised a brow again as he looked at her. She was grinning sheepishly.

“Listen, laundry happens, OK?”

***

The first time was one night when he hadn’t been as bad off as she’d thought. She was just bandaging little cuts. There was a slash on his chest, and she’d decided it only needed butterfly sutures.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” she’d asked as she’d cleaned it – her touch was light, delicate, but steady and unintimidated by the ugliness of the wound or his scars.

“You know why,” he said, watching her focus, the efficiency of her movements.

“I do?” she asked, glancing up at him. He looked back at her.

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “’Cause it needs to be done.”

She canted her head to one side as she unwrapped the first suture.

“You sayin’ we’re the same?” she asked as she applied the stitch. He watched her for a long time, then shook his head.

“Nah,” he said, his voice gruff but quiet. “You’re tough as shit, but you really believe everybody deserves help. Maybe that everybody can be saved.”

She snorted at that, but kept applying the sutures.

“I think that the people that can be saved need to be protected from the ones that can’t.”

She looked up at him then, unwrapping another suture.

“And how do you decide who can be saved and who can’t?”

As she applied the last suture, he reached up to brush a lock of hair away from her face, to tuck it behind her ear.

“How do you?”

***

The kiss was at once unexpected and almost inevitable. She’d leaned up and he’d leaned in, her lips already parted, his tongue sliding across the seam of her lips.

She kept trying to be careful of his stitches and it made him smile against her mouth as he picked her up, walked her to the table with her legs around his waist, as they tore at each other’s clothes.

“I’ve had worse,” he growled against her mouth as she peeled off her scrubs and then his jeans, as she rocked against him.

“I don’t want you… bleeding all over… everything,” she breathed as his hand slid between them and she moaned at his touch.

“We’ll be fine,” he said, grinning against her mouth as she ground into his hand.

***

It’d been a pretty brutal fight with the Yakuza; he’d been sliced up more places than he cared to admit. He was close to bleeding out when he’d showed up at her doorstep. She’d cleaned the wounds and stitched them up with a tight jaw, her hair falling just right to block her eyes from his gaze, but her focus seemed singular as she wrapped it.  
  
Her words were few and curt; strict instructions on how to care for the injuries, like he didn’t know. She rarely met his eyes, but when she did, hers were blazing.

Then she looked away.

***

He hadn’t seen her for weeks. Before they’d fucked, she’d come to check on him semi-regularly, complaining that he didn’t take good enough care of himself, that he should come to her more often, that he needed more medical attention than the sewing kit he kept in his go bag.

He told himself that he was going to her place because she was way better at stitching than he was, because her fingers were better for delicate work than his.

And they were.

***

The surprise on her face when he showed up at her door was clear.

“Are you OK?” she asked, searching his face, then looking him over.

“Yeah,” he said, filling her doorway. Her gaze back on his, she canted her head to one side.

“What are you doing here?”

“You gonna let me in, or you wanna talk about this where all your neighbors can hear?”

There was wariness on her face, but she moved out of his way and motioned for him to come inside.

Once the door was shut, he turned to face her.

“You avoiding me?”

She pursed her lips and raised a brow.

“You have an injury I haven’t patched up for you?”

“Nah,” he said, walking past her and taking a seat. She stayed standing.

“Is this the part where you pretend like we’re not fucking?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Is this the part where you pretend like it matters that we are?” she shot back, raising a brow. He tilted his head to one side.

“You sayin’ it doesn’t matter?”

She huffed an exasperated sound, then went to the kitchen counter.

“I really don’t feel like playing the ‘answer the question with another question’ game, Frank.”

He thought about it, then said, “OK. Can I get a beer?”

She cut him a weary look, then took two beers out of the fridge, popping the caps off and handing him one. He took a sip, then looked at her.

“Look, Frank,” she said, pulling a hand through her hair. “I’ve been down the masked vigilante road before. I know it’s a bad idea to get attached.”

He took a sip of his beer and raised a brow.

“I’m not a masked vigilante.”

“So, you’re saying you’re emotionally available and well-adjusted?” she asked, arching her own brow.

He smirked.

“I never said that,” he said. “But I’m not him.”

Crossing her arms, leaning against the counter, she watched him.

“I’m not,” he repeated calmly. “I’m not sayin’ I’m not fucked up, and I’m not sayin’ that I’m your best option, but I am sayin’ that I’m not gonna push a good thing away when I see it. I’m not promisin’ you happily ever after; that’s not what you’re in for if you decide you wanna be with me. But when I’m in, I’m all in, babe.”

She watched him for a long time, then shook her head, taking another sip of her beer.

“You’re an asshole,” she said without heat.

“Why, because I’m honest?” he said with a smirk.

“No, because you said exactly what I wanted to hear, but you also gave me enough warning so that when shit gets ugly, you can say you told me so, and take no responsibility.”

He smirked again.  
  
“Nah, babe,” he said. “When shit gets ugly, I know it’ll be all me – or at least mostly. And I’ll own that. Don’t mean things’ll turn out any different.”

Claire sighed.  
  
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have other works that haven't made it here (yet?) on my tumblr -- something-pithy! 
> 
> If you're into this pairing, you can send me an ask/prompt there. :)


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